by Traci Hall
He finished quickly and she tossed her Jamison back like a sailor before getting them out to the edge of the dance floor. Chantal’s red sequined mini-dress, the same color as her hair, caught the flash of the strobe lights, her black heels clicking on the cement. She was a good dancer—not spectacular, but fun.
He spun around, bumping into someone. “Sorry,” he said automatically, not really looking at who he’d rubbed shoulders with on the crowded floor.
“No problem,” Lucas answered.
“Right. No problema.”
Zamira? With Lucas?
“Shit.”
Chapter Six
Chantal danced closer, running her hand up the center of Armand’s back. “What’s wrong, hon?”
He grimaced, knowing that this had to look a certain way to Zamira, and hating that his first thought was to protect his rotten ex. He put his hand on Chantal’s tailbone and brought her flush to his body.
He’d owe her one later for not punching him in the face.
Zamira, rigid in Lucas’s arms, looked from him to Chantal and back again. Her gaze lifted and he read regret and disappointment in her brown eyes.
It would be best if she thought Chantal was his lover. Then she wouldn’t push to have a place in his life.
He nuzzled Chantal’s neck and pretended that Zamira wasn’t watching.
The music pounded in sensual beats, the energy in the room hot and high so that even the air smelled like sex.
Lucas had Zamira by the hand and he danced toward her, his hips to hers. He swung her, holding her by the waist, and Zamira’s long dark hair whipped out behind her, snapping Armand’s arm.
Lucas danced her backward, his pelvis to hers, his hand on the curve of her hip as he guided her down in a sensual dip.
Furious, Armand poured his skills into making Chantal pliant in his arms. A touch of his knuckle to her cheek, the heat of his breath against her bared throat. He trailed his finger down her arm, stopping at the wrist, which he brought to his mouth and nipped with his teeth.
He heard her intake of breath, felt her sexual interest peak, but turned to see what Zamira thought of that.
His fiery Argentinian ex was watching, angry, as well she should be. She knew him. Knew just what it felt like when he cupped her butt and brought her close. His groin ached and pressed against Chantal.
Lucas licked Zamira’s lower lip and she shot out of his embrace.
“You can dance with me anytime,” Lucas drawled, his lids lowered as he took in Zamira’s tight nipples beneath her snug dress.
Armand released Chantal, who kept her hand on his arm. Zamira shoved Lucas backward then glared at Armand. “You both are pigs.” She stalked off the dance floor.
Armand went for Lucas, who held up his hands. “Whoooa, now. Need to get kicked out for the rest of your life? You are so easy, Armand.”
Lucas followed Zamira, but Sophie and JoJo stepped between them.
Chantal turned in his arms, rubbing her perfect butt against his deflated groin. “I knew that show wasn’t for me.” She pouted. “Too bad.” Swiveling, she danced around him as he gritted his teeth and flexed his fists. “Come on, lover boy. Act like it doesn’t matter. It helps, trust me.”
He focused on Chantal. Her pert nose, her fire-red hair, her teasing smile. “Nothing helps.”
“That woman was your type. Know her?”
“Her name is Zamira,” he confessed. “She is the prototype. After that, they broke the mold.”
*****
Zamira fled the dance floor. What in the hell was that all about? Who was that woman dancing with Armand? They were lovers, they had to be! They touched with familiarity.
Easy confidence of being together.
Her stomach heaved. Damn Lucas. Damn her pride for thinking she could get information that Armand might use.
He obviously didn’t need her—he’d just let her know that, loud and clear. She should buy a ticket home to Argentina. Go to college and be a lawyer like her mother. The only one that might be upset if she never danced again would be rebellious Aunt Tildy, who’d bought Zamira her first tutu.
She pushed against the door leading out of the club to the fresh air on the sidewalk.
“You all right, darlin’?” the smooth doorman asked.
Nodding, she avoided his concerned gaze and walked to the curb. Where was a cab when you needed one?
A firm grip on her elbow whirled her around and she fought for balance on her four inch heels. She jerked free, though Armand’s strong arm came around her waist to keep her upright.
His touch thrilled her and that just made her mad. He had no right to set off this tidal wave of feeling. He’d made it clear he was not a free man. And she didn’t do cheating.
“Let go.”
“Let me explain.”
“Explain your tongue down her throat?” Dios, she hadn’t meant to shout the words. He had every right to kiss his lover. The woman had worn a look of pleasure that Zamira could recognize anywhere.
The people waiting to get into the club cheered at her outburst.
Armand moved her out of the spotlight and around the corner of the building. “You have never been able to hide your feelings.”
“I never needed to.” She rubbed her arms, realizing she’d forgotten her shawl inside the club. But she wasn’t going back to get it.
Armand slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Coffee?” He gestured with his chin to an all-night diner across the street. “It tastes like sludge, but we should probably talk.”
“We don’t need to.” She’d come to him, on his turf. He owed her nothing.
“Give me five minutes.”
What could he possibly say in five minutes that he couldn’t tell her here? But her traitorous head nodded, her heart understanding before her body that five minutes with the man she loved was better than standing on a street corner in Miami.
They went inside the pale pink single-story diner, the chime above the door ringing loudly enough to be heard over the cacophony of drunk, mostly happy voices. Twelve booths ran the length of the small restaurant and a long café bar with single seats was opposite the aisle.
Burnt coffee singed her nostrils, but the smell of fried onions and bacon made her stomach growl. She’d been so busy dieting for him, the taken bastard, that she could eat an entire pig, with more bacon on the top—si, and gravy too.
He led her to a booth in the back, her heels muffled on the linoleum floor. She slid in, and he sat opposite of her. She couldn’t meet his eyes at first and studied her fingernails for smudges in the polish. Of course there were none. She was a perfectionist when it came to her accessories.
A waitress, early twenties but with smoker’s lines around her mouth, slung two mugs of coffee down on the table between them. “Coffee?” She asked, to be sure.
But why else would they be hanging out in the diner after midnight except to sober up before driving home?
Armand thanked the woman as she left two menus.
“Are you hungry?”
Ten minutes ago, she wouldn’t have looked sideways at a piece of bread. Now? “Starving.”
“Remember when we used to get omelets from that little restaurant on the corner of Farlita and Blanca?”
She remembered every single moment with Armand, probably better than he did since she’d relived each second for the last two years while he’d been getting over her.
“With the brie...yes.” She lifted her gaze and found him staring at her, studying her as if he’d forgotten what she looked like. Self-conscious, she tucked her hair behind her ear before wrapping her hand around the hot coffee mug.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “For being a jerk.”
She blew on the hot brew and met his eyes over the rim of her mug. “Which time?”
He winced and shot back, “Should I ask about Diego?”
Tilting her head, she sipped and settled her cup carefully in the ring of coffee spilled by the waitress. “What
about him?”
“How does he feel about you being here?”
Since she hadn’t told Diego, she supposed he didn’t care. She shrugged and looked out the window to the streetlamp across the road. “How should I know how Diego feels?”
Armand sat back against the padded bench seat. “A non-answer. Typical.”
She made to leave. “If you’re going to be insulting...”
He put his hand over hers on the table. “Wait. God, Zamira, you broke my heart into a million pieces and it took me a long time to get over you.” He didn’t release her, compelling her to meet his eyes. “I wasn’t sure I could. Just when I’m feeling good again, you walk in and I don’t know how to act around you.”
“You’ve moved on.” She gestured to the dance club. Chantal. They had danced very well together.
“Yes.” Armand lifted his hand and she missed the heat of his skin against hers. “But not in the way you think.”
“Is she your girlfriend?” Bile rose up to burn the back of her throat. “Your wife?”
He clenched his jaw tight. “Neither. Chantal is a...” Pausing, he continued, “…a really good friend.”
I bet. Oh well, Zamira thought as she stared into her mug. Armand didn’t owe her anything, so she wasn’t sure why he lied about his relationship. She recognized the intimacy of lovers in the way they’d shared space. Chantal’s pleasure-filled gaze as Armand had nipped her wrist. “I see.”
“Chantal, well, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I was an ass in the club because I saw you dancing with Lucas.”
She’d thought that, until watching him get very close to Chantal.
The waitress returned with notepad. “You ready to order?”
Zamira nodded. “Two fried eggs over hard, crisp bacon and hash browns, with a side of sausage gravy.”
“I’ll have that, too,” Armand said. “I love that you like to eat. It’s exhausting being around women who get by on a piece of lettuce.”
Dance costumes revealed everything, so she’d go back to the lettuce tomorrow but for now? She deserved to have butter on her toast, too. She’d given up everything to find Armand in America, to dance with him again and prove to him that she loved only him.
Fate was cruel.
“You look terrific, Zamira. You’ve always been beautiful.”
She sniffed. “Stop being so nice. I don’t like it.”
“Why?” He arched his brow.
“You were very angry at me when I walked into your studio.”
“I explained why. You being here again...it was unexpected.”
“I can go.” She looked over his shoulder to the booth behind him.
“Back to Diego?” He asked in a growl.
“I no longer dance with Diego.”
“Why are you here?” Armand leaned forward on the table, his forearm knocking into the silverware. “Tell me the truth, Zamira. Why?”
He would never believe her if she told him the truth.
It was hard for her to accept that she’d carried this torch in her heart for two years only to find it unrequited after all of this time.
But she had to tell him something, something that he would believe. “I wanted to broaden my dancing horizons. You were right, all of those years ago.” She let her voice trill. A bored diva, sharing a laugh.
“About?”
“You told me I was chained by fear.” Two years ago, she’d been too afraid of change to leave with Armand when he’d asked her to join him in America. He’d brought up marriage, which had terrified her further.
Armand bowed his head, a brown curl resting against his cheek. “Sorry.”
“No!” She held up her hand. “You were right. I was comfortable. I thought that I would never make it outside of Argentina.”
“What changed your mind?”
My love for you. She cleared her throat. “I grew up. Armando, this is so hard for me to say.”
The rushed waitress brought two platters of steaming food, set them down and darted away.
“Just say it.” Armand sat back, picking up his fork.
“I’m so sorry, Armand. I realized my mistake, right away.” Zamira bravely lifted her eyes. “I tried to call you, but you froze me out.”
“I was trying to survive.” His voice hardened. “You’d made your choice.”
“I know. But it was the wrong one.” She bit into a piece of bacon, letting the savory hickory spice melt over her tongue. After swallowing, she said, “I learned that it wasn’t the dance that was important, but the partner.”
Armand nodded, scrutinizing her as he put his napkin in his lap. She sensed that it was not the time to confess her love. The fact that he was talking with her, listening to her at all, was further than she thought she’d get after his reaction Friday morning.
His posture relaxed and he forked egg into his mouth, chewing as he thought. Then, “All right, Zamira. I accept your apology for breaking my heart.”
Her mood lightened. “And I accept yours for embarrassing me in public. But where does that leave us?”
He crunched a piece of wheat toast. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll see how you dance on Monday.”
Zamira knew he was teasing her, but she reached for his hand anyway. “I am grateful for the chance to be a part of your dance company, Armand. I will do my best for you.” He’d accepted her apology—that alone made the flight from Argentina worthwhile.
“Thank you.”
She’d prove her willingness to be a part of his dance company and eventually he’d see that he could trust her again with his heart—if Chantal didn’t hold it already. Zamira finished her bacon and eggs and reached for her coffee. He put his fork down in the center of his empty plate.
“That was good,” he said, his eyes at half-mast as he studied her.
Desire darkened his pupils and she squirmed on the bench seat, heat scorching her cheeks. Dios! She’d missed him so much—in her heart, and in her bed.
Chapter Seven
Zamira’s phone rang from inside her small purse and she pulled her gaze free from Armand’s. Thank heaven, she thought, knowing that she had to think straight before she did something rash, like beg him to take her home.
She would not be a conquest for Armand. Zamira answered the phone, her emotions in chaos. Instinctually, she understood that sleeping with Armand right now would be a tactical error. She loved him, but he didn’t know that.
If she were to get a true second chance at his heart, she’d have to go slow when what she wanted was him in her arms, in her bed. Now.
“Hola!” Her voice squeaked.
“It’s Sophie—are you okay? You left your shawl.”
Her friend’s voice was hard to hear with the club music in the background. “Thank you for getting it, Sophie. I am taking a cab home.”
“Are you sure?”
“Si. Stay and dance.” She’d go home alone and savor the victory of Armand’s forgiveness.
“Armand left after you. His girlfriend sure looks pissed. We’ve never seen her before. She looks familiar, though.”
Zamira would not gossip even though she wanted everyone to know that the beautiful woman was not his girlfriend. “Is Lucas still there?”
“He’s such a jerk!” Sophie made a growling noise. “Keeps going on about how Armand is a fake.”
Zamira bristled. “I should have punched him in the face.” The way he’d touched her while staring at Armand made her feel dirty.
Across from her, Armand’s dark brown brow lifted in question.
She shook her head and held a finger to her lips. It would be best if the other dancers didn’t know they were together—it would only add drama to an innocent situation.
“He’s got some dancers here from his studio. They’re good, but snobs. They’d throw each under a bus without a second thought.” Sophie sighed. “Great song! I’m gonna go. You sure you’re all right?”
“I am. Thank you for checking. I will see you on Monda
y.”
“See ya!”
Zamira ended the call. “They noticed you left after me. It’s probably best if we aren’t seen together.”
Armand put his credit card on the bill and waved to the waitress, his eyes on hers. Desire made them golden brown, like burnt honey. His kisses would taste as sweet. “I can drive you back to your hotel.”
Oh no, you can’t. Zamira sighed. “That’s all right. I prefer to take a cab.”
Armand drummed his fingers along the table. “Why?”
“Because if you drove me home, I’d want to ask you up to my hotel room—you agreed to give me a week-long trial, just like the other dancers. Can’t ruin my chances by sleeping with the boss.” Take that for honesty, Armando.
His cheeks flushed. “What makes you think I would say yes?”
Ouch. He’d always been stronger than her.
“Or that I can’t separate my personal life from my professional life?”
“You hated me as of two hours ago.” She patted her chest. Love was the other side of hate, so she was gambling for everything despite wanting him so desperately in the moment.
She knew exactly how their bodies fit, how he filled her completely.
“Fine, take a cab. I can’t leave Chantal stranded, anyway.” He exhaled, plowing his fingers through the curls on the side of his head. “You’re right. It’s best not to cross that line.”
Zamira straightened against the vinyl back seat. “I want to dance with you.” I want to make love with you, but it’s too soon. She willed him to see the love she had for him in the depths of her eyes.
He looked away. “I don’t dance—I run the show.”
“But Armand, you have to dance!” It was in his blood. Had something happened for him to give it up?
“I am not the person I used to be.”
The waitress returned with his credit card, leaving it on the table with a yellowed smile and a whiff of smoke.
“Thank you for breakfast.” Zamira’s voice sounded formal to her own ears as she picked up her phone. It was time to retreat. Rethink her plans. “Go on back to the club. I still need to call for the cab.”
